A Lesson In Vulnerability (Dying Changes Everything)
by AkiraRamsheen
Summary: "We're not friends anymore, House. I'm not sure we ever were." House tries to reconcile with Wilson after he tells House that they are no longer friends. After his talk with Cuddy, House has something to say to Wilson. Set between 'Dying Changes Everything' and 'Not Cancer'.
1. Merry Christmas

"We're not friends anymore, House. I'm not sure we ever were." House tries to reconcile with Wilson after he tells House that they are no longer friends. After his talk with Cuddy, House has something to say to Wilson. Spoiler from season 4 and 5.

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or rights to House, M.D. All rights belong to the respective persons.**

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House stood in front of Wilson's door. He had been standing there for minutes with his cane in mid air trying to decide what to do. He was hesitating. He never hesitated. He lowered the cane, having decided against it, and tapped it repeatedly against the carpeted mat in front of the door. He was afraid.

Amber's death, he thought, destroyed the only lasting relationship he had. But it hadn't. He closed his eyes, and remembered what Wilson had told him the day before.

"_Amber was never the reason I was leaving. I didn't want to tell you because," he scoffed, "because I was trying, like I always do, to protect you. Which is the problem. You spread misery because you can't feel anything else. You manipulate people because you can't handle any kind of real relationship. And I've enabled it. For years. The games, the binges, the middle-of-the-night phone calls. I should've been the one on the bus, not," he stopped and shook his head, "you should have been alone on the bus. If I've learned anything from Amber, it's that I have to take care of myself."_

_House could only stand there, scanning Wilson's face for any sign of hesitation, reluctance, a hint that everything coming from his mouth were lies. But there was nothing._

_Wilson continued. "We're not okay...We're not friends anymore, House. I'm not sure we ever were." As Wilson gathered his things, House could only stare blankly in front of him as Wilson walked past him, down the hall, and out the door._

Click, squeak, slam, click. The opening and closing of a door brought House out of his somber thoughts and his eyes glued to the door. He glanced down at the case of beer in his left hand. He twisted circles into the mat and took a long breath. "This is stupid." We're no longer friends, and that's fine, he thought. We'll just have to start over. He tapped his cane once more on the mat in affirmation before rapping it against Wilson's door.

There was no response. House tried again.

Silence.

"I know you're in there Wilson. I can hear your self-pity."

"Go away, House." Wilson called from inside the apartment.

House smirked. He was speaking to him, a good sign. "I can't. Friends don't let friends wallow in self-pity."

Wilson laughed bitterly. "Since when do you care if I" he said the last words incredulously, "wallow in self-pity?"

It's been two months. That's my limit on sitting by before I have to stop you from doing something stupid."

"I'm not wallowing-"

"-Yeah," House interrupted, "Because packing up and leaving everyone who cares about you while you drown in depression and misery isn't self-pity. It's just as destructive though."

Silence.

"That was sarcasm, you know."

Wilson was getting annoyed. "Well now you don't have to sit and worry about it anymore since we're no longer friends."

"Well that's strange since I'm standing here, in front of your door, worrying. Oh, wait, isn't that what friends do? Now are you gonna open the door or-"

House was interrupted when Wilson thrust open the door. He looked, according to House, completely fine, save for the scowl on his face which he assumed to be from annoyance. Though it had only been the second day since he severed his friendship with House, Wilson looked entirely normal. He imagined, even hoped, that Wilson would look more miserable. He was leaving House, and Wilson seemed fine.

House was disappointed, then annoyed, and finally angry. After a moment of scanning Wilson's face he spoke. "You look good."

Wilson scoffed. "What do you want House?" House raised the can of beers in his hand.

"Peace offering." I thought we could, I don't know," House paused to scan the floor, "talk."

"We're not friends anymore House." House looked up at Wilson. "I don't want to talk. I don't," he looked around, "I don't want you to be here." House stared at Wilson whose gaze was serious.

House breathed in quickly. "Fine." He gave a short nod. "We could start over." He looked at Wilson who was giving him an incredulous glare.

"No we can't House. I can't-"

"-You said we weren't friends anymore," House interrupted. "That you weren't sure we ever were. Fine. If you were never sure, then there's no reason to say we can't start over. This time," House lowered his glance slightly, "you can be sure."

Wilson looked at House and shook his head. "I won't enable you anymore House."

House scoffed. "You don't have to."

Wilson snickered and shook his head. "Bye, House." He closed the door.

House stood there, staring at the closed door. He looked at the beers in his hand and sneered. After a while he decided to leave. When he moved his cane in rhythm with his left leg he stopped and immediately and looked at his right hand. He noticed his knuckles had become white. Unknowingly, he had been slowly gripping his fingers around his cane, in apprehension.

He stretched his fingers and continued walking. On his way out of the lobby he saw one of Wilson's neighbors walking into his apartment. "Here." House called to the younger man, who looked back at him, confused. "Merry Christmas." He dropped the can of beers in front of the neighbor's door without another word and limped out.

The younger man looked at the beers then back at House who was limping ahead. "Thanks!"


	2. Six Vicodin

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or rights to House, M.D. All rights belong to the respective persons.**

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House threw his apartment door open and used the tip of his can to slam it behind him. He limped to the couch, threw his jacket on the side, and turned on the TV. His leg was hurting. He rubbed at his thigh, massaging small circles into the ruined muscle. He dug for his pills in his pocket and spread some onto his palm, and counted one two three four, four pills. He looked at it a moment before swallowing. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply as the pills glided down his throat.

He turned the TV. off and limped to the kitchen, abandoning his cane against the couch. As he poured himself a glass of scotch, he swirled the glass in his hand, and thought of Wilson.

_After a moment Wilson responded. "I've gotta do what's right for me. You've gotta do what's right for you."_

House lowered his eyes from the glass. "Guilting him backfired." He took a sip of his drink. "How the hell am I supposed to get him to stay?" He slowly sipped his scotch while Wilson's words kept echoing through his mind.

"_We're not okay House, we're not okay."_

House had spent most of yesterday analyzing the words and Wilson's expression. Today, the action sent waves of pain through his leg and he grimaced. He fought through it and continued to reflect.

You_manipulate people because you can't handle any kind of real relationship...You should have been alone on that bus."_

"I should have been alone," House agreed to himself. His hand shook as he brought the glass to his lips, and swallowed the rest of his scotch. Warm tears pricked the back of his eyes and he screwed them shut. After a moment he opened them carefully, and took a short breath. The pain in his leg only grew and his experience told him to take in deep long breaths.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The pain turned into a sharp stabbing and he held his breath. He let it out slowly, carefully when the pain allowed him, and rubbed his palm against his right thigh. His hand shook when he tried pouring himself another glass. He spilled most of it on the table but he didn't care. He threw his head back and took a large gulp, slamming the glass down when he finished.

House tried standing, his leg twitched and buckled before collapsing under the weight. He caught himself and used the nearby chair for support. He waited a moment before trying again, this time, he was careful to apply the smallest amount of pressure to the right leg as he lightly tapped it against the floor. Once he was balanced between the chair and his left leg, he pushed himself from the chair and put all of his weight onto his left leg, levitating his right leg above the floor. He let it touch the floor and slowly applied weight to it. He held his breath in a conditioned response to the knots it sent throughout his thigh.

He stopped and breathed in a long shuddering breath. He looked down the hall to his bedroom. It was so far away, and his thigh was screaming at him. He wouldn't make it. He threw his arm out and grabbed onto the nearby wall for support and hopped on his good leg. The move sent more shivers through his thigh and he stopped. He leaned against the wall and balanced himself with his left leg. He looked ahead and thought he had to at least make it to the couch.

He took a few moments to ready himself. He worked his way around the wall and put all of his pressure on his left leg. Once he was at the edge of the wall he tapped his right against the floor again and held his breath. He gave himself one last push off the wall and hopped on his left, tapped his right against the floor, and switched back to left. His legs were shaking but he continued, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, until he threw his arms on the back of his couch.

His arms hung from the back of the couch while his body dangled lifelessly. His legs were behind him and stretched along the floor. He laid like that for a few minutes, his arms outstretched above his head and his legs hanging lamely. His face was glistening with sweat and it dripped from the tip of his nose and splashed onto the floor. When he tried to pull himself up with his arms he managed to steady himself with his left knee pressed into the back of the couch.

He paused again as the action sapped most of his energy. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths for what he was about to do.

With one unsteady motion he slid his left leg up against the couch and, once balanced, dragged his right leg up and firmly placed it on the floor. He gave a small cry as his thigh spasmed and his leg fell gracelessly behind him and back onto the floor. He dug his fingernails into the leather couch in response to the burning in his thigh. He tried pulling himself up with his arms but he had no energy.

Finally, he gave up and unclenched his hands from the couch. He fell onto the floor and supported himself on his forearms a moment before pressing his body against the cool floor. His sweat made the floor slick enough for him to roll on his back without irritating his thigh any further.

"This is pathetic." House threw a hand over his face and another that clutched at his aching thigh. "I'm pathetic," he groaned and his right thigh let out a wave of pain in response. He threw himself to his left side and clenched the ruined flesh when it spasm. He curled himself into a tight ball and threw his head back again and again.

Once the pain allowed him to, House dug into his pocket for his pills. His hands shook as he tried and failed to unscrew the top. "Dammit!" House banged the bottle against the floor in frustration and the pills rattled in his clutch. He wiped at the sweat on the top of his lids and lifted his body into a seated position.

House slowly dragged his body backwards on his palms against the couch. He leaned on the back of the couch and closed his eyes. His mind wandered back to Wilson.

_Wilson shook his head. "I have to take care of myself, House. I can't enable you anymore."_

House looked at his right leg with a flash of hatred. He rubbed it continually for a few moments before the pain came rushing back. He let out small whimpers with each wave of heat it sent throughout his leg. He clutched the pills in his left hand and used much of his remaining energy to unscrew the top.

He tilted his head back as he swallowed one two three four five pills. He looked at the orange bottle in his hand. He only had six left. He tightened his fingers around it, and breathed in and out and in and out again to soothe himself.

His shirt and hair clung to his body as he remained deathly still against the couch. Fresh tears pricked at his eyes and he let them fall. "It should have been me." House said behind closed eyelids.

His left hand clung to the bottle and his right rubbed at the damaged tissue until his shaky breathing lulled him into a fitful sleep.


	3. Numb

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or rights to House, M.D. All rights belong to the respective persons.**

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******House awoke with a start to a high pitched ringing echoing throughout the apartment. He groaned and blinked several times, looking around the room in confusion. He brought his palms to his face, crushing them into his eyes as he rubbed them. He glanced at his hands to his face and saw the droplets of sweat on them. He had sweated through the night. After a few moments he frowned when he realized the ear splitting noise was coming from his bedroom. **

The sound reminded him that it was 12:00 pm. He was late for work. He looked down at his legs, he wanted to move but he was scared. The pain. The pain will come again, he thought. He stretched his arms behind him and slowly began to lift himself. He slid his left leg up so his knee was touching his chest and stopped to prepare himself to lift his right leg.

He took short breaths and looked down at his sides. His Vicodin was missing. He furrowed his brows and snapped his head side to side to see if he had tossed it somewhere in his agitated sleep, but he saw no orange bottle. He looked behind him and a wave of relief washed over his face when he saw orange underneath the couch.

He grabbed it and returned to moving himself from the floor. The floor was still slick from sweat and he struggled to steadily push himself upward. Once he was in the air he threw his right hand behind him, clutching at the leather couch. He dug into the fresh holes he made last night, and tried once again to lift the rest of the way.

He supported himself with his left leg planted on the floor and right hand against the couch. His right knee was bent and his foot hovered above the floor. He held his breath and let it down, slowly slowly, very slowly. He waited for the sharp pain to stab his thigh, but it didn't come.

After a few moments he took a step with his left leg and lightly tapped the floor with his right. He put just enough pressure on it so he could make it to the front of the couch. He plopped down and carefully let his right leg touch the floor in front of him. House thumbed the edge of the top of the bottle a few moments before giving it a longing glance and plopping it on the messy table in front of him.

House sunk into the cushion and closed his eyes. His brows knit together when the ruined muscle began throbbing. He rubbed at it cautiously and threw his head back into the cushion. He opened an eye and looked at the orange bottle in front of him. Six pills. Only six left.

His feud with Tritter had resulted in a substantial reduction in his supply, and he was in no condition to pick up a new prescription from the hospital. The feud had also caused the first real strain on his relationship with Wilson. Wilson, he frowned as he unconsciously kneaded his thigh.

He reached for the table with his free hand and grabbed his watch. 12:23 pm. "If they had a case for me they would've called" he grumbled and tossed the watch back onto the table to concentrate on massaging his slowly aching thigh.

House knew it was pointless but he tried reanalyzing everything he and Wilson had been through. Maybe he missed something. Wilson had said he was leaving because he needed to take care of himself and he couldn't do that while being friends with House. House frowned at this, he knew he couldn't change, and if he could, it would be too late. All the pranks, the insults and mocking, and the middle-of-the-night phone calls led to this. There was nothing he could do. He needed Wilson and knew he couldn't live without him. He was his only friend.

This realization made him feel miserable. He hissed at his thigh that was sending floods of pain throughout his leg. He grabbed the nearest thing and squeezed it as hard as he could. The couch cushion crumpled and ripped in his grip while his face contorted in pain. "God. The pain." He clawed at his thigh with his free hand and immediately regretted it. He threw his head back pleading for the attack on his remaining muscle to end soon.

But it didn't. He was at the mercy of the dead tissue spreading through the remainder of his thigh. He held his breath for as long as it took and let it out in short puffs when the contractions calmed slightly. Hot tears streamed in rivers down his moist cheeks, down his neck, and merged with his sweat stained shirt. It was too much, he thought, this is too much.

He freed the cushion from his hand grip and darted for the Vicodin. He ripped the lid off and shook the bottle onto the table. He stared at the pills and argued with himself. Four, no three, my leg needs five but I only have six left. Three. Three now and three later. He grabbed three pills and swallowed them, his eyes fluttered when he felt them slither down his throat.

He had to move. He knew he had to move. He reached on the floor near his feet and found his cane. After several minutes the pain dulled to an almost manageable cry, and when it was safe he slowly started to move.

He used his cane to pull himself up to a shaky upright position. Another high pitched tone startled him into almost tumbling over. He looked at the table in annoyance where the sound was coming from. His beeper was hollering at him. His team, he thought, must have found an interesting case. Normally he would brighten at this, but now it only irritated him. The pain was overwhelming. He gave the pills a longing glance and frowned.

He ignored the beeping and hobbled over to the kitchen to finds something strong enough numb his leg. The empty bottle was still there, along with the spilled mess and tipped over glass. He threw open a cabinet and grabbed the strongest thing he could find. Once he opened the bottle he spilled as much as he could into his mouth. It burned and scratched at his throat but it would numb his leg. He needed to numb everything.

_Wilson knit his brows and looked at House. "I don't blame you, House."_

House wiped at his face with the inside of his forearm and took another large gulp. He scanned the floor and answered into the empty room, "I do."

His beeper rang again and again but he didn't care. He pushed the empty bottle and glass off the table with the edge of his cane and fell into the chair. He dropped his cane in the broken shards of glass surrounding the table. His head sunk into the spilled puddle of scotch on the table while he clutched the vodka in his left hand. He rolled his head side to side and tried smoothing out the knots in his thigh.

"_I didn't want to tell you because," he scoffed, "because I was trying, like I always do, to protect you."_

"I'm sorry." House lifted his head and stared at the bottle in his hand. His face was wet with sweat or scotch, or both. His leg sent another surge of pain and he responded with several gulps from the bottle. He cringed at the burning in his throat but it was nothing compared to the agonizing pain in his leg. Just as he lifted the bottle again he heard knocking at the front door.

He thought about ignoring it but it could be Wilson. No, it's not Wilson. Wilson has a key, he wouldn't knock if he had a key. But he would knock if he felt he needed to knock. Maybe it is Wilson.

"House?" House frowned. It was Cuddy. "House, I know you're in there." He sucked more vodka out of the bottle and decided to ignore her. "House, you can't hide away in there forever. Wilson left but you still have patients. House!" House groaned. He knew she wouldn't stop until he answered her.

He groaned. "I'm not coming in today."

"House you have patients. I know your team paged you."

Silence.

"They found you an interesting case."

"I don't care." He couldn't care. His leg wouldn't let him care.

Cuddy raised her brows in surprise. She knew something wasn't right. "Let me in."

Silence.

"House? House are you okay?" She frowned and tried opening the door. "House-"

Click, scree, stop. She was interrupted when House dragged open the door. She stepped in and saw his legs shiver as he staggered back to the kitchen. She rushed to help him but he brushed her off. House plopped into the chair and rubbed his palm against his thigh. Cuddy stepped into the kitchen and knit her brows when she saw the shards of glass and what looked to be a brownish liquid on the floor.

"What do you want?" House didn't bother looking at her. He took a few sips from the bottle.

She moved to sit across from him, careful to avoid the shards of glass surrounding the table. She sat down and scanned House, who was drinking. She frowned at the condition he was in and sighed. "How's the pain?"

House lowered the bottle from his lips and glared at her before speaking. "It hurts."

"How many Vicodin have you had?"

House grimaced at the pain and took another gulp. "Not enough."

Cuddy frowned. If House took Vicodin and was drinking as much as he was now, he was in a lot of pain. "How many do you have left?"

"Three."

Silence.

House had stopped drinking to focus on the pain rushing through his leg. He clutched the sides of his right thigh with both hands and rocked his body in the chair. Cuddy rushed to the bathroom and came back with a wet cloth and rubbed it against his face. House banged his hand on the table and curled his fingers tightly into a fist. He let his head drop on the table and pushed out long breaths as Cuddy rubbed his back gently. He moaned and whimpered and after a few minutes of silence Cuddy spoke.

"House."

Silence.

"House." Cuddy stopped rubbing his back and wet the cloth again. She wiped the sweat from the back of his neck and held the cool cloth against his skin.

"Come on House. Let's get you in the bath."

Silence.

"House? Come on House, you'll feel better."

"I can't." House looked up at Cuddy, his leg, then back at Cuddy. "My leg. I can't move."

Cuddy handed him his cane and threw her arm around his right torso. "Come on, on three. One. Two. Three."

House stood with support from Cuddy and his cane. He threw an arm around her shoulder and dug the cane into the floor. He was shaking but he could make it. They hobbled to the bathroom and stopped every so often when House couldn't continue. Cuddy opened the door and placed House on the edge of the bath. She grabbed House's cane and placed it against the sink. House's hands shook and his fingers trembled when he tried unbuttoning his shirt.

"Here. Let me do it." Cuddy brushed his hands away and started unbuttoning.

"It's fine, I can-" House tried moving her hands but she brushed his hands away and gave him a glare before continuing.

She pulled the shirt off and threw it somewhere behind her, and peeled off his undershirt. She started at his pants but House stopped her. "I got it."

Cuddy huffed and started the bath. She threw her arm around House and the two of them staggered to the edge of the bath. House threw his legs over and carefully lowered himself into the water. It was cool but he hesitated before letting his right thigh touch the water. He grimaced and whined as his thigh twitched when it made contact with the water.

"Is it too cold?" Cuddy asked in response.

House gripped the edge of the bath and clutched his throbbing thigh. "No." He let his head relax on the wall behind him and closed his eyes. She sat on the edge of the toilet, and watched him carefully.

For a few moments House was calm and he relaxed his body in the water, but the pain came surging back. At first a dull throbbing, then a sharp stabbing pain overwhelmed his leg. He screwed his eyes shut and squeezed his thigh with both hands. He whimpered and tears streamed down his face.

"God." He breathed out shakily.

Cuddy frowned. "House if you're in this much pain you should take the Vicodin."

House blinked a few times then looked at her and focused back on soothing his thigh. "I can't. That's all I have left."

"You can get more."

House said nothing for a moment and concentrated on breathing. He closed his eyes and frowned.

Cuddy disappeared from the room and returned a few moments later. She leaned over to House and held out her palm. "Here."

House stared at the three little white pills in her hand. God I want it. I need it. I really need it, the pain is too much. I'll take it. No! No, I can't. I want to but I can't. If I take it I won't have anything left. House looked up at Cuddy and shook his head. "No."

Cuddy knit her brows. "House."

"No! I, I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I won't have anything left." House said it so softly he was sure Cuddy didn't hear it, but she did.

She sighed and moved to the toilet. She glanced at House who was slowly turning his body away from her. After a few moments she spoke. "House, are you sure this is just physical pain?"

House snapped his head and glared at her. "What?"

"With Wilson leaving and everything-"

"Of course I'm in pain! The dead tissue in my thigh is spreading throughout my leg!"

"Come on House. Right after Wilson leaves you're literally unable to move. I know you're in pain. But maybe this isn't just physical pain."

"Get out."

"You have to deal with this House. You can't just shut everything out and barricade yourself in your apartment! You need to-"

"Get the hell out!" House came to an unsteady upright position, but his eyes pierced through Cuddy's.

Without another word she stood up and left. He waited for the clicking of her heals to trail off and the front door to open then close. When he was sure she had left his shaking legs gave and he dropped into the tub. His thigh suffered another attack and his eyes darted toward the sink. Cuddy had left the three pills on the edge of the edge of the sink. He rubbed circles in his thigh, and looked at them longingly before turning away.

"_You only think about yourself. I can't do it anymore, House_."

House closed his eyes and slowly sunk into the water. Maybe it is more than just my leg. Throbbing. Burning. God, it hurts. I just want it to stop.

"_You have to deal with this House_."

"How?" House asked the empty room. I apologized and he still left.

"_I don't want you to be here, House_."

House grimaced as Wilson's harsh words drowned his thoughts.

"_Goodbye_. _Goodbye, House."_

"_You don't want to believe it_."

House sat up in shock and scanned the room to find where the familiar voice was coming from. The voice belonged to Cuddy, but no one was there.

"_You don't want to believe it House."_

"Believe what?" House called into the room.

"_Because if you tell Wilson how you actually feel about him, and he walks out the door anyway..._"

House scoffed. "He already did." He lifted himself on his hands out of the tub and onto the edge of the bath. He gave the pills another long glance before he buried his head in his hands. "What else can I do?"

"_If you make yourself vulnerable for once..._"

House immediately knit his brows and lifted his head. "Make myself vulnerable?"

"_...Tell Wilson what how you actually feel about him_."

"What does he mean to me? He's my friend, my only friend. I'll tell him that" house said with a short nod. He grabbed his cane and walked out of the bathroom, abandoning the three little white pills on the counter.


	4. Three Little White Pills

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or rights to House, M.D. All rights belong to the respective persons.**

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"I'm so tired." Wilson plopped on the couch and loosened his tie. He looked around the room and frowned. Everything reminded him of Amber. It should, he thought, since it was their shared apartment. "What am I gonna do about House?" He came by last week and after I told him to leave I haven't heard from him since. "Maybe he gave up." He frowned immediately. "House never gives up." He rubbed his temples and sighed wearily in apprehension for the next few days that would surely require him to dodge House and his antics.

Wilson got up and continued to pack various things into boxes when he heard a loud rapping at the door. He frowned. "It's him. After all this time you would think he could start using the doorbell."

I'll ignore it, he thought. There's no reason for me to talk to him anymore.

"I know you're there Wilson." Wilson raised a brow then scoffed. No he doesn't, he told himself.

"I saw you go into the building."

Wilson's frown deepened. Why can't he just give up? He opened the door in his usual state of annoyance of squeezing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "House I told you t-"

"I know."

Wilson opened his eyes and was completely shocked at the state of House's appearance. He had dark circles around his eyes and he could see the lines of pain in his face. Is he off Vicodin? No. If anything, he needs it the most right now. He looked down at House's right hand and confirmed his suspicions. House was off Vicodin. His hand was desperately squeezing the handle of his cane. He only does that when he's in a lot of pain.

"There's something I need to say." House said bringing Wilson out of his thoughts.

"House," Wilson said wearily, "I don't have time for this."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll be quick." House said nodding to himself.

Wilson raised a brow. That's different. Whatever, as long as he gives up after this. Wilson opened the door the rest of the way and moved to the living room.

He saw House close the door and follow after him. He was putting almost all of his weight on his cane when he moved with his right leg. Maybe he's faking to make me feel guilty. No. I saw it in his face, he's definitely in pain. Well, considering the situation of course he's in pain. But why isn't he taking the Vicodin?

The thud of a cane on hardwood floor focused Wilson's eyes ahead of him, on House. House was silent. His head was down and his cane stood between his legs as he twisted circles into the floor. He sat back and waited for him to say something, but House only gripped his cane and kept his eyes glued to the floor.

"How long have you been off Vicodin?"

Silence.

"House."

"I'm fine."

"How long?"

"Monday."

Wilson knit his brows. "That was three days ago."

"I know."

Silence.

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter." House said after a long pause.

"You're my friend Wilson."

Wilson sighed, but before he could say anything House continued.

"I know I messed up. You might not blame me, but Amber's death was my fault. I always mess up but I thought," he paused and shook his head, "no. All my life I've pushed people away, you, Stacy, Cuddy, and I've brought pain to those who matter most to me. But even though I'm selfish and manipulative you were still my friend." House lowered his eyes from Wilson's. He had to strain to hear it but what he clearly heard was, "my only friend." "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for Amber, for you leaving, for everything, but I still want to be your friend."

Wilson scoffed to himself and shook his head. "You don't get it do you?"

House looked up at Wilson. He seemed irritated. "Of course you don't," Wilson said when he noticed the confusion written on House's face. "You only care about yourself House."

House scrunched his brows. "What do you think I'm-" Wilson put up a hand effectively cutting House off.

"No. You didn't come here for me." Wilson rubbed his palms down his face and sighed. "House, you're here because you don't want to lose a friend, because you don't want to be alone." Wilson scoffed and shook his head, he realized something. "The only reason you stopped taking the Vicodin is because you're scared you won't have anything left. God, after all that's happened you still," he paused, "I can't do this anymore. I can't take care of myself and still be your friend."

After a few minutes of silence House left. He rushed out of the building and into his apartment where the three little white pills were waiting for him.

* * *

**AN: I love seeing House's vulnerable side and decided I had to write a story with that as it's focus. I've used actual lines from the show to give it a more authentic feel. It was a pleasure to write and I hope you read, review, and enjoy. Thank you for your support.**


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